“About a week ago a guy was killed on the 395, up near Holmes Run Trail.”
“I read about it. Carjacking went bad, wasn’t it?”
“Probably. The thing is, the guy lived in this building. He parked in the same garage as you do, drove a black sedan a lot like your Chrysler. And he was a fair match for your description.”
Jack felt his belly tighten. “You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack. The tire on his car blew out. He pulled over to the side of the road to put the spare on. As far as we can figure it, somebody stopped, maybe offered to help him, then slit his throat and left.”
Jack didn’t reply.
“What I’m wondering now,” Butler said, “is if somebody did something to his tire, then followed along and waited until it blew.”
“What time was this?”
“About two in the morning. He was coming home from his girlfriend’s house — just like he did almost every Monday, Tuesday, and Friday for the past six months.”
Just as he’d done with the gym, Jack thought. “Shit,” he muttered. It was all he could think to say.
“That’s one word for it,” Butler replied. “You didn’t answer my question: Are you in trouble?”
Yes, I think I am. They’d come at him twice and missed twice, leaving an innocent guy lying on the side of the road with his throat open. If he gave them a third chance they’d make damned sure he was dead. What was this about?
Jack had never put much stock in his status as First Son. It was a shadow cast by his father, albeit an unintentional one. Plus, he didn’t like the exalted sound of it all. That aside, the truth remained: Somebody was doing their level best to kill the son of the President of the United States. That took a pair of jumbo balls. What could be that important? Not just good old-fashioned revenge, Jack thought. Yegor Morozov and the people in his circle were dispassionate and logical when it came to violence, ticking boxes and weighing pros and cons before ordering a trigger pulled.
“Maybe it’s gambling, or sex, that kind of thing,” Butler said.
“No, nothing like that.”
“I’m not looking to hassle you. Even if I was that guy, shaking you down would be more trouble than it’s worth, you know? If you’ve gotten into something over your head, maybe I can help. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like you’d be hurting for help if you needed it — CIA, FBI, Department of Agriculture. But if you wanna talk…”
“No, I appreciate it, Detective, but—”
“Doug. You sure?”
Jack nodded. “Did this guy have family?”
“Mark’s his name. Mother, father, and two sisters. They own a chain of specialty bread shops — Macloon’s. Anyway, Mark was the heir apparent. It’s somebody else’s case, so I don’t know if there’s anything shady on the business side. Listen, Jack, this could be all coincidence. It happens more times than you’d think. Just keep an eye out, yeah?”
“I will.”
“Might as well keep that Glock handy, too.”
Jack nodded. “Anything more on my guy from last night? Witnesses? Did anyone come forward to claim the body? How about an autopsy?”
“No and no. As for an autopsy, there really wasn’t much left to cut on. I’m sure the M.E. will run a tox screen and his fingerprints, but that’s about it. Chances are, unless some next of kin show up, he’ll end up a guest of the city.”
“What’s that mean?”
“In the city cemetery. After a month, unidentified bodies are classified as destitute. The taxpayers foot the funeral bill. Anyway…” Butler downed the rest of the beer and set it on the counter. “Thanks for that. Gotta run.”
“Thanks for stopping by.”
“Yep. And Jack, one more thing: Maybe think about calling that Secret Service detail, huh? At least for the near future.”
6
For the second morning in a row, Jack awoke before dawn.
He’d slept in fits and starts, glancing at the clock and getting up to stare out the window before lying back down and trying again. He was restless and there was no outlet for it. No action to take. Somebody was hunting him. The first time his survival had depended on mistaken identity; the second, the luck of the roll. Tumbling down that slope with Weber, it could have just as easily been Jack’s head that had smacked into the concrete barrier. Weber would’ve had no trouble finishing him off.
Pure chaos and chance.
Short of waiting for them to try again, Jack had one card left to play, and it was at best a long shot. Assuming the mystery man was Weber’s accomplice, the man would have three options: Leave the area, make another try for Jack, or tidy up and then go to ground. Jack was counting on option three.
They knew he’d survived. They would assume he now knew about both attempts on his life. They would assume Jack had reported this to the Secret Service. They would assume the full investigative might of the federal government was being mustered. With Weber gone and an untraceable John Doe in the morgue, there was only one fragile investigative thread left to pluck: Weber’s belongings at the motel. If anyone was coming to collect these, it would be Weber’s accomplice.
After stocking up on food and water and a few paperback mysteries from his wanna-read shelf, Jack drove back to Springfield and used another item from his rucksack — a fake driver’s license — to check into the Motel 6. Citing a “very special anniversary” with his soon-to-arrive girlfriend, Jack asked for room 144. The vaguely goth, nerdy teenage girl behind the reception desk gave him a sotto voce “Whatever, dude… have fun” and handed him the key card.
Jack drove back to the side exit, parked, and went inside. At the door to room 142 he paused to listen. The PRIVACY PLEASE placard was still in place. Hearing nothing, he swiped the key card and went inside and made a quick inspection. The room was unchanged.
He left and entered the room next door and settled in.
Jack’s gambit depended largely on the accomplice. Why he’d failed to intervene on Weber’s behalf was a mystery. Had he gotten spooked? It was possible. If so, how likely was it that kind of man would show up to collect Weber’s belongings? Maybe, if the decision wasn’t his to make. Jack had found nothing of use in the room; perhaps there was nothing of use to find. Did the accomplice or whoever was pulling his strings know this?
The morning passed slowly. Jack, afraid he’d miss hearing the double beep of Weber’s door lock, had assembled a reading nook of bed pillows on the hallway floor. The maids and their squeaky-wheeled carts slowly but steadily made their rounds, tapping on doors and softly calling “Housekeeping” before either stopping to clean or moving on to the next room. Out of boredom, Jack timed them. They averaged twelve minutes per room. Was this good, bad, or average? he wondered. Finally one of the maids reached his door.
“Housekeeping… Do you need anything? Clean towels or soap?”
Jack didn’t answer. His PRIVACY PLEASE placard was in place. Did management make them ask anyway, just to cover their bases? Maybe the maids got a secret thrill from interrupting the occasional carnal union. The job was probably boring; you took fun where you found it.
After five seconds the maid and her cart continued down the hallway.
By midafternoon he’d finished one novel and started a second. He alternately dozed, snacked on trail mix, and drank bottled water. There was a better-than-average chance he was wasting his time here. But he had nothing else, no other lead. Perhaps it was time to call Gerry, maybe Clark. Bringing his dad — and thereby the FBI and the Secret Service — into the loop would create more problems than it would solve, especially for The Campus.